A Cold Prologue
by T Rocket
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat, they say. But for one man, it would do far worse. This is the beginning of his journey. The beginning tale of Vexen's somebody, Even.


Once or twice, a small handful in the expansive lives of the smatter of remaining Atlanteans--their brethren would choose to leave.These people were few and far between, but regardless--were.

One relic passed between them, a small stone, practically a gem. They wore it on a cord around their neck--as if to keep it close to their core, to their heart. These were not brave men. They trembled at the thought of change, bowing their heads to tradition while meekly stretching upturned palms out for knowledge. The relic allowed them vague freedom, granting them passage through the Betwixt and Between--a pathway between the realms of light and dark. It was this way these men traveled to other worlds, taking in what they could, before running back to their own broken realm, tail between their legs.

No one stayed gone for too long. Traveling in the neutral between light and dark--when untrained, tore at the core of every Atlantean who attempted the path. To these people, whose longevity was unheard of outside of legend--a life surpassing thousands years was accepted as the norm. But a single trip to the Betwixt and Between could halve this. Prolonged trailblazing took its toll quite obviously. All who returned did so wearing lines of age, sometimes returning so advanced in life, they were near death.

This was the sign, the elders foretold, as Atlantis' fall was caused by their greedy push for absolute knowledge, that it could occur again to plummet them to even worse condition. As it was, they lived in the ruins of their once noble land--scrounging for fruit and fish.

Obviously, conditions worse were not appealing.

Once before, their society had reached, grasped, and fell. The men who strove for that lost were handed a cold, cruel fate--robbed of their very lives, years stolen from them in travel which may have only taken months.

But this placated the people, acting as their opiate. They lived, loved, and did as they had for years. They had no purpose, but to survive. No one spoke up, no one contested the proven facts.

Except for one, set aside by his dirty hair and insatiable thirst for more.

One day, among his walls--dirty from the smear of chalk, covering in the ideas which would not fit on the papers which littered his floor, he conceived an idea...

"I think...I want to leave."

The warm body in his arms shifted, soft blue-green eyes widening in confusion. "You...you're not serious, are you?"

"I'll be coming back. Everyone comes back."

The younger man in his arms pouts slightly in worry, nuzzling closer. They call it a night.

Were these people to pick an official position for their society in life, they may have fancied themselves a working example of anarchism. Indeed, they had a chief of sorts, but unless a crisis were upon them, the people were generally self governing and did as they needed, never taking more what they required.

But therein lies the problem.

Greed is a necessary part of the human condition. Without it we have no hope. We have no dreams. We live for the sake of living, for the sake of survival. No one moves up or down or in anyway from their dregs. They just age.

He holds his dreams dear to him. He chooses to want beyond his needs, chooses to hope past what lies before them.

And that will be his downfall.

"Take the relic," this man is not their king, but his standings rise clear above the rest. He has been this way since their Beginning. No one speaks a word in contrast.

"Setting aflame your pyre so soon?" the man with the bright eyes and dirty hair in cynical. He has his reasons.

No on believes him.

"We are removing temptation from our world."

"You are throwing away your chance at escape! You're digging your own grave!"

"No." His expression is grave, set and serious. "We are purging ourselves from danger."

"What?!"

"For too long we're overlooking your misgivings and treasons, child..."

"Treason?! You--" Bright eyes come dark as a sea at storm. This advisor has turned on him. They'll all turn. They are sheep.

"--found your books? Your notes? Of course. You were never discreet with them. We burned them of course. Why do you think we threw them to the ocean to begin with? We were never meant to harbor such knowledge."

"You bastard-!" he seethes, hands clenched.

"Take the relic, boy. This is no longer your precious day trip. This is an exile."

He couldn't speak, frozen in shock.

"Restrain him." Men stormed in. Took him by the arms. Bowed his head under force. He

shook, trembling with rage. With tears.

What was going on?

"You--! You're condemning them to death!"

"I am bringing them salvation."

"You're mad!"

"No. I am their god. They look to me for guidance when their fool king sits aside in silence. I lead them through the turbulence of this era. I am simply tending to my garden here, removing the most unsightly weeds."

"Murderer! You're leading a slaughter!"

"Yours is a misconception. Mine is a revolution." The man turns his back to the one with the dirty hair and broken eyes, hands clasped behind his back. "Take him away. Leave him at the surface. Kill him the moment he dares trespass our ground, our oceans."

The man who so easily passes these orders, the bright eyes decides, is no snake among a garden of purity. he is a leviathan--a serpent sowing the seeds of dissonance, quietly shaping those following him into his winding coils, his sweeping tail.

He chokes the life from them. And they let him.

They believe they have utopia, a dream-like state. But in fact, they have only a downward spiral, hidden only by their self-constructed blinders.

- - - - -

Footprints in the sand were not the only thing left behind by the exile. He left behind ash and smoke, notes and paper charred and ruined by flame. He left behind ideas, philosophy, and wisdom--all readily smothered by a zealous sheep-herder, proclaiming his doctrine as the only truth. But though the memory of the exile was washed away as easily as his footprints in the evening tide, his will was not so negotiable.

With sand stuck underfoot and skin wet from the seas spray, the exile shed his name and started anew.

He would be no more a passive scholar, treading lightly to appease the gods of godless men. Today he was Even, and would be until the day he died. Even would strike out, consequences be damned. With his name, chosen by his own hands, he would keep dear. And as well, his choice, made in part for him, would be one he would never walk down from.

He walked the beach, watching the evening reds fade to a dusky twilight. He walked until morning and for the first time, felt the true light of dawn upon his skin.


End file.
